


Meanwhile The World Goes On

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Domestic, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Injury Recovery, Introspection, M/M, Permanent Injury, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Moody is still here, and he's still alive. That is what Kingsley must cling to in the wake of Moody's most recent brush with death.
Relationships: Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody/Kingsley Shacklebolt
Kudos: 4





	Meanwhile The World Goes On

“Go home, Shacklebolt.”

Kingsley paused — knife hovering just above the carefully laid out chicken on the chopping board — head tipped to one side as he thought, before he placed the knife back down. The sea outside lashed against the rocks, grey water hitting grey stone with a fury few could ever hope to match, almost drowning out the distant rolls of thunder. 

“I don’t think I will, if it’s all the same to you,” Kingsley called back, leaning just far enough backwards to see the edge of the large double bed. He picked the knife back up, and just listened. Beneath the chaos brewing outside, the rattle of water rushing through pipes that were likely older than Kingsley — it tasted slightly like copper, warm even in the depths of winter — and the low, monotonous hum of the oven; Kingsley could hear Moody grumbling to himself. It was a familiar cadence, rising and falling as Moody cursed in a language Kingsley couldn’t understand, and the knot of worry and tension that had solidified in his chest over the past few months slowly began to loosen. 

He began to roughly chop the chicken once more, tossing the pieces into the large pot sitting on the stovetop as he went. His thoughts kept wandering, unmoored from their previous port when Moody was lying in a hospital bed — grey and unmoving with so many spells layered over him, it made Kingsley’s skin buzz when he held Moody’s hand. He was home now, as Kingsley kept reminding himself, discharged himself from St Mungo’s the moment the word came out of the Healer’s mouth. 

“Going over the same actions, the same thoughts is a sign of craziness, isn’t it?” Kingsley muttered to himself, feeling a wave of exhaustion pass over him. He steadied himself on the edge of the counter, forcing a slow breath in and out even as his chest ached with the force of it. Shaking his head to try and remove the maelstrom raging in his mind, he forced himself to consider the night ahead.

Kingsley’s room in Moody’s house — his true home, or at least, as close as Moody would ever get — was technically a small bedroom, half tucked beneath the stairs, but it was mainly for show now. He could, technically, deny it to any hypothetical question asker — but who would Moody even allow into his house except Kingsley? — but his boots rested beneath the double bed, next to Moody’s, his clothes hung in the sturdy wardrobe, next to Moody’s.

  
  


Kingsley knew at some point in the future he would return to that small cramped room when he was no longer able to bear the quiet emptiness of being completely alone. But it seemed morbid to entertain those thoughts now, in the wake of almost losing him.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Moody called, as if summoned, and Kingsley managed a weak laugh in response. “If you’re so set on hanging around where you’re not wanted, come in here once you set that thing off to cook.”

“‘That thing’ is my mother’s recipe for chicken soup. Men have killed for this dish,” Kingsley replied, setting the knife down as his hands were shaking too much, putting his fingertips in danger. 

Moody’s laugh seemed to fill the house, sunlight breaking through the clouds that hung heavy outside, and Kingsley wanted to bask in that sound forever. He quickly dumped the rest of the chicken into the pot, tossing the bones in after it, and made his way to Moody, footsteps quiet out of sheer habit — it didn’t matter with Moody as Kingsley could feel the prickling of his magical eye on his skin, but it upset their colleagues at times as it didn’t match the rest of Kingsley’s large frame. 

“If you hover in the doorway again, I’ll throw you out of this house myself,” Moody barked just as Kingsley reached the door frame, continuing in with barely a stumble. 

Moody’s good eye focused on him as the magical shifted to stare out of the window. It was familiar to Kingsley, a routine they had formed little by little, barely even realising what had happened until the first time they were parted and Kingsley tossed and turned all night, sleep always just out of reach. The hospital had been one of the worst experiences of Kinglsey’s life — a vigil that others called a deathside watch when they weren’t fully out of his hearing, but he would remember that — but Moody had been there, asleep and recovering, but  _ there _ . 

“What did the Healer say?” Kingsley asked, sitting on the edge of the bed carefully to not jostle Moody — a fact that didn’t escape the other man from the grin that twisted his mouth — and pulling off his boots. 

“Bed rest, light exercise — no sex yet, I checked —” He broke off to laugh at the sudden heat that flared in Kinglsey’s cheeks, hidden by his dark skin but Moody knew him better, “—but I should be able to get a prosthetic if everything heals well.”

He shifted to one side — eyes closing reflexively, the lines in his face standing out in stark relief as his jaw clenched — and patted the stretch of bed next to him, the instruction clear. 

“I’ll need to go and check on the soup in about half an hour,” Kingsley told him and waited for Moody to nod, mentally preparing himself for the shift of the bed beneath him, at least a few more times, before lying down next to him. Kingsley stared at the wood above his head, eyes tracing the pattern again and again as he listened to Moody breathe. 

It had been the one constant in the turbulence of the hospital, an action Moody had continued to do under his own power, and the knot inside Kingsley’s chest loosened a bit further. He knew he would have to get up again soon, and then again, but it would end in rich, filling soup — lacking the spices of his childhood for now, but he could survive that — and more precious time in Moody’s company.

Kingsley rolled onto his side and watched Moody watch him through half lidded eyes. 

“I’ll be fine, Kingsley,” Moody murmured, reaching out to interlock their fingers together and Kingsley closed his eyes as all the worry and grief slammed against his ribcage, squeezing Moody’s fingers tight.

“I know,” Kingsley replied quietly, stretching a foot into the hollow where Moody’s leg once lay, feeling the emptiness like a wound. He moved past it, couldn’t linger too long on that absence, carefully pressing his toes — freezing, always freezing in this freezing grey country — into the warmth of Moody’s remaining calf, muscles twitching beneath his touch as Moody laughed.

“Need to get you some warmer socks, lad,” Moody grumbled but made no attempt to move away.

Kingsley chuckled, the noise unfamiliar to his ears, and shifted slightly closer. This was enough, and he was content.

⁂

Morning sunlight pierced his eyes — the curtain never hung quite straight but it never seemed urgent enough to fix — and Kingsley blearily blinked onto a new morning. Last night seemed a thousand miles away and yet, it was memories Kingsley would treasure. His mother’s recipe came through yet again, even pulling a rare compliment from Moody, and leftovers were waiting in the fridge. 

The weight of worry was absent from his shoulders, a burden he had thought would have driven a lesser man mad, replaced with more familiar concerns about Moody. Kingsley yawned, jaw cracking, and carefully reached across the bed, excepting to bump into Moody at any moment.

His side of the bed was still warm, indentation still present due to the broken springs slowly groaning back into life, but a flash of panic shot through Kingsley’s veins, blood rushing in his ears. He was on his feet and out of the door before he fully realised what he was doing. The back door was propped open allowing a freezing crisp breeze to whip through the house, goosebumps erupting across Kinglsey’s bare skin. His wand was in his hand in an instant, footsteps silent as he crept forwards.

“Calm down, lad.”

Moody’s voice was gruff, tinged with amusement, as he picked his way unsteadily back up the back garden path. His crutch hit the earth solidly, and he paused to spit out a few loose chicken feathers, before walking back up the path. Kingsley glanced at the small coop set into the crumbling garden wall, and caught sight of one of the chickens — feathers dark and speckled and a small tag around one leg — strutting past the entrance. 

“Seeing as you’re up, you can make breakfast,” Moody told him, pushing the collection of eggs into Kingsley’s hands and used that movement to hook his hand around the back of Kingsley’s neck and pull him down for a kiss.

“Sure thing, boss,” Kingsley muttered against his lips, unwilling to fight his own grin from spreading across his face at Moody’s grumble in response. 


End file.
